


take a hall pass

by saintemry



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak (implied), Bottom Richie Tozier, Coming Untouched, Communication, Consensual Non-Monogamy, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Orgasm Delay, Platonic Sex, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Switch Richie Tozier, Top Stanley Uris, meaning that they communicate openly about it & eddie is enthusiastically supportive, there's no actual reddie smut in this sorry hskfjsfk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25301917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintemry/pseuds/saintemry
Summary: “You don’t feel… I mean, you don’t feel weird about it or anything, though?”With a laugh, Eddie answers, “I think it might be more troubling if giving my boyfriend my blessing to hook up with his best frienddidn’tfeel a little weird.”Well, when you put it like that,Richie thinks.-Or, Eddie gives Richie a hall pass because once in a while, Richie just needs to be fucked.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 26
Kudos: 154





	take a hall pass

“You’re _sure_ you’re okay with this,” Richie says, for what’s probably the third or fourth time in the last hour alone.

“I’m positive.”

“And you’ll tell me if that ever changes?”

Eddie sighs, sounding less exasperated than Richie might’ve expected, and stands on his toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “I will, I promise. How are _you_ feeling?” When Richie hesitates, he steps back and says, “If you’re having second thoughts, we can call Stan and just — I don’t know, go get dinner together or something.”

“No, no, I — I’m good, Eds. I’m golden. Just worried about you, you know?” Richie really does feel fine. A little keyed-up at the moment, maybe, more from anticipation than anything, but he’s not about to back out now.

“Richie,” he says, giving him a serious look. “This was my idea in the first place, remember?”

Technically the suggestion originally came from Dr. Taylor, although it had occurred fleetingly to Richie before. “I know, babe. And it’s a fucking good idea. You don’t feel… I mean, you don’t feel weird about it or anything, though?”

With a laugh, Eddie answers, “I think it might be more troubling if giving my boyfriend my blessing to hook up with his best friend _didn’t_ feel a little weird.”

 _Well, when you put it like that,_ Richie thinks.

“But like I said, I promise that I’m totally on board. Don’t stress about me, alright? What matters most is that you feel good about it.”

“Right.” Some of the tension bleeds out of him, and it’s replaced immediately with a surge of love for Eddie. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve someone who knows him so well and cares about him this much. “Eddie,” he says, his mouth feeling dry with the sudden vulnerability of the moment. “Eds, I love you so much. Jesus.”

Eddie’s face breaks into one of those wide, beautiful smiles that still makes Richie’s knees go weak after all these years. They move at the same time and meet in the middle, his hands easily finding Eddie’s waist to pull him in for a kiss that’s long and gentle and tastes like wintergreen.

“I love you too,” Eddie says, and Richie gets that bubbling warmth in his chest all over again.

“What time is it?” Richie asks.

With a glance at his watch, Eddie says, “Quarter til, so I should get going. I’m meeting up with Patty at that bar on Fifth Avenue — she said something about karaoke night.”

“Ah. Enjoy your girls’ night out,” he says. “Don’t drive home.”

That makes Eddie roll his eyes. “Of course I won’t. I’m taking a cab.”

“Good.”

“Enjoy your booty call. Say hi to Stan for me.”

Jesus Christ.

Eddie grabs his jacket off the hook by the door and shoulders it on, then gives Richie one last quick kiss. “Seriously, have fun. Be safe. I wanna hear all about it after. And hey,” he says, his eyes glinting. “Maybe next time I’ll join you two.”

And fuck if that isn’t the idea of the goddamn century. He’s still standing there reeling when the front door closes, wondering if he should maybe sit down for a minute before Stan arrives.

Years ago, their friends started a betting pool on how long it would take for him and Eddie to get together, which neither of them were made aware of until well after the fact. Their predictions varied wildly; Mike (ever the optimist) apparently expected it would happen as soon as they left Derry, Bill gave it until they finished college, Stan dryly guaranteed that _it’s gonna be at least another twenty years of this pining bullshit if none of us intervene,_ and Ben was surprised to find out that they were not, in fact, a couple already.

Bev’s guess ended up being the closest. Two years after they moved upstate and started school, the pieces finally slid into place, and she gleefully collected her winnings from the others.

Richie maintains that Derry was the reason it took as long as it did — on top of the trauma of staring down death at the hands of a supernatural being that gobbled up kids like Eddie popped aspirin, that rotting, backwards shithole of a town kept them swathed in homophobia and intolerance their whole lives. No one would expect any of them to come out of it without scars, or without a lot of damage that needed to be undone. 

And needless to say, they dealt with it in different ways.

Eddie started seeing a therapist. Even though he carefully left out any mention of killing an evil clown at the age of thirteen, Sonia Kaspbrak had still provided him with more than enough material to fill several months’ worth of forty-five minute sessions.

Richie’s approach involved a lot less professional help and a lot more weed, as well as a kind of newfound sexual liberation — it didn’t take long to realize that when there wasn’t a constant threat of having his teeth kicked in or _worse_ for it, it was actually far easier to accept that he might like guys. At the very first house party Bev towed him along to, a boy with dark eyes offered him a drink and struck up a conversation with him, which turned into exchanging sloppy, drunken kisses and slowly grinding against each other in an upstairs bathroom, and then there was no going back.

Everyone who said college was a place for learning and having new experiences was absolutely right. Maybe this wasn’t quite what they were referring to, but Richie learned several things about himself regardless in the two years between that night and the first time Eddie kissed him.

He slept with a lot of people — guys, more of whom were small and dark-haired and fiery than he’d care to admit, as well as girls. The gender of his partner wasn’t really a principal concern for him, and he figured out that he was flexible when it came to sex itself too. He could top or bottom, could be rough or tender or casual, could easily slip into either a dominant role or a submissive one depending entirely on what his partner preferred.

And with hookups, there was usually a point before they started where the topic would come up — a brief exchange of _So what do you…_ or _Do you want me to…_ to make sure they were both on the same page. The first time he and Eddie fucked, though, there was no discussion; all he needed to say was _Please, Richie. I need you inside me,_ and Richie was practically tripping over himself in his eagerness to do just that. They fit together so well and so naturally, and there’s just something about Eddie’s tight, perfect little frame and wide brown eyes that brings out Richie’s dominant side without any coaxing.

And okay, maybe Eddie’s had some sexual awakenings of his own since leaving Derry. He likes it dirty and rough, and he likes when Richie takes control and manhandles him a little, and Richie’s ridiculously, wholeheartedly on board with it. It’s a fucking thrill seeing him all laid out and begging for it, knowing he can make Eddie fall apart like that, seeing bites and bruises dotting his skin the morning after. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Still — there are moments, once in a while, where it feels a piece is missing. Richie can take it just as good as he gives it, and sometimes he misses taking it. Not just getting fucked, although he enjoys that too; prostate orgasms can be pretty incredible in a way nothing else he’s yet encountered is.

But there’s also an incomparable freedom in allowing another person to take charge and be in control. Usually he’s happy to fill that role, even prefers it. It’s just that sometimes, it feels like an itch that he can’t quite scratch.

He brought it up to Eddie not long ago by asking, _How do you feel about being on top?_ Eddie immediately laughed at the idea, then stopped as soon as he saw the look on Richie’s face and said, _Why do you ask, Rich?_ And they talked about it, like the mature goddamn adults they are, and then Eddie apparently mentioned the conversation in his next therapy session. That evening, he came home with a tentative grin and a possible solution. 

“Dr. Taylor says it’s totally normal,” Eddie told him. “Or — not normal, but definitely not unheard of. It’s perfectly healthy as long as we both agree and communicate about it.”

Richie could hardly wrap his brain around it. “How the fuck would that even work, though? Like, am I just supposed to call an escort service or something?”

“Well, no.” Eddie said, tapping his thigh. “She said it’s best if it’s someone we both know and trust.”

And then by some serendipity, the next time they went out with the rest of the Losers, Patty Uris just happened to mention that she and Stan opened their marriage a couple of years ago. Said it was one of the best decisions they’d ever made as a couple. Sharing a look with Eddie, Richie thought, _I guess it couldn’t hurt to ask._

After all, Stan knows and understands Richie better than pretty much anyone. Stan is his best friend, who innately knows when to shut down his bullshit and when to humor it, the person he’s always been able to count on to stick by his side to the bitter end.

It took surprisingly little convincing to get him on board, and Patty, the absolute angel that she is, supported the idea as enthusiastically as Eddie had.

What followed was a lot of negotiation and careful planning as they laid down boundaries, discussed what they would and wouldn’t be comfortable with. Richie has always been a figure-it-out-as-he-goes kind of guy, but Stan was, as expected, extremely thorough, and as much as Richie ribbed him for it, his clear concern for Richie’s comfort and safety sort of warmed his heart.

They set a date, and Eddie and Patty made their plans, and suddenly it was a sure, real thing.

Overpreparing is usually more Eddie’s department, but nervous energy keeps Richie pacing around and straightening up as he goes, making sure that everything is in place. He sets a bottle of lube on the nightstand, fills two glasses of water, checks that the bedroom floor is free of clutter. Christ, he hasn’t felt this jittery before having sex with someone since he lost his virginity with Sarah Boyle in the backseat of his shitty Volkswagen in _high school._

He knows it’s not the sex itself that he’s worked up over, though. It’s the strangeness of the whole ordeal.

The doorbell rings at precisely eight o’clock, and there’s Stan, in khakis and a crisp buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow.

“Stanley the Manley,” Richie says in lieu of a greeting, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, then whistles. “Shit, you clean up nice.”

Stan comes in, pulling him right away into a brief, tight hug. “Hey, Richie.” His arms are nice and solid, and his familiar smell is comforting. _It’s just Stan_ , Richie thinks. _I’ve got this._

After removing his shoes, he follows Richie inside.

“I was thinking about just, like, answering the door naked,” Richie chatters. “You know, cut out the extra steps.”

“Thank you for _not_ doing that.”

“Figured I didn’t need to risk the neighbors seeing my dick. Again. Hey, can I get you something to drink?”

Stan gives him a quiet smile. “I think I’m okay, thanks.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Are you stalling?”

Defensively, Richie shoves his hands in his pockets and answers, “Maybe.”

“Are you sure about all this?” Stan places one hand on Richie’s shoulder and squeezes. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“Eddie already gave me the whole speech. I’m _good_ , okay, I’m ready. Isn’t this kind of a trip, though? Like, is it just me or is this sort of weird?”

At that, Stan shrugs. “I guess so. We’ve known each other our whole lives, and now we’re about to have casual sex while our partners hang out without us. I think it’d be crazy to not feel strange about it.”

“That’s what Eddie said too.”

“Eddie’s a smart guy.”

Richie, all at once, is about to get emotional, overwhelmed by the knowledge of how _lucky_ he is — lucky to have such an understanding, supportive boyfriend and a best friend that’s willing to help him out like this, lucky that there are people that care so much for him.

“Yeah. He is.” He breathes out through his nose and looks Stan in the eye. “I’m ready,” he repeats.

Stan squeezes his shoulder again and says, “Good. I am too.”

Richie steps forward to shrink the space between them, and Stan moves his hand to the back of Richie’s neck and closes the rest of the distance, tilting his head as their lips meet. This is one of the things they talked about, whether kissing was okay or if that’s too intimate, but they came to the conclusion that it’d be silly not to.

He’s glad for that, if he’s being honest. Stan is a good kisser — his mouth is soft, and he applies just the right amount of pressure in all the right ways. He’s also only about an inch shorter than Richie, in stark contrast to Eddie, whom Richie has to bend down to kiss properly in order to make up for the height difference. It’s a nice change.

When they separate, Richie goes, “We can, uh, the bedroom is —” He gestures at the hall. “Follow me.”

The room goes dark when they shut the door behind them. He doesn’t turn on the overhead light, instead just hurries to switch on the lamps on either side of the bed, and says, “Is that alright?”

“It’s good,” Stan replies. 

He reaches out to smooth Richie’s hair out of his face, looking him up and down. Arms extended slightly from his sides as if to say, _This is it, here I am,_ Richie asks, “How do you want me?”

“Mm. Someone’s in a hurry. Go ahead and get undressed, down to your underwear.”

With a sly glance, Richie adopts a pitch-perfect impression of Winona Ryder and intones, _“I was kinda hoping you’d rip my clothes off me, sport.”_

Stan does not look impressed. “Was that — did you just quote _Heathers?_ Are you for real?”

“Sure did. Remember when I made you sneak into the theater with me to see it? What were we, eleven? Twelve?”

He just rubs his eyes and groans. “I do remember, unfortunately. That movie was such utter bullshit.”

“Maybe. But you gotta admit, Christian Slater was _hot_ back then.”

Once his pants and shirt are off, Richie lets them fall into a small heap next to the bed, chuckling as he watches Stan carefully fold his shirt and set it on the floor.

“What?” Stan says. “I don’t want it to get wrinkled.”

 _Never change, Stanley,_ he thinks.

It turns out that while Stan has the fashion sense of a dorky history professor, he’s apparently been hiding one hell of a body underneath all along; he’s fucking gorgeous, lithe and toned, with a dusting of dark hair across his chest and a few light freckles dotting his shoulders. Richie suddenly feels both a touch insecure and _very_ turned on. 

“Jesus, who the fuck gave you the right to be this hot?” 

Stan, taken by surprise, laughs sharply. Then he’s moving in and kissing Richie again, deeper than he did out in the front room, his lips opened slightly and his tongue just barely slipping into Richie’s mouth. Richie drops some of the tension he’s been holding in his shoulders as he lets Stan take control.

“On the bed,” he says into Richie’s ear. “Lie down.” Richie goes down easily and Stan follows, propping himself up on one arm over him. “Before we get started, I have a couple of rules.”

“Of course you do.”

“One,” Stan continues, deliberately ignoring the remark. He lets his fingertips glide down Richie’s chest and skirt the band of his shorts. “You don’t get to touch yourself without my permission.”

Fuck, okay — he’s talking about _those_ kinds of rules. Richie instantly feels himself harden in his briefs. 

“Two, you don’t get to come without my permission. I like to take my time, and I want you to show me you can be patient.”

“Wow, Stanny. I always knew you were a control freak; should’ve known that would extend to your sex life.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a smart mouth?” Stan asks. 

“You mean anyone besides you, repeatedly, for the last twenty years? _Ah-h_.” His back arches as Stan drags a fingernail over his nipple. “I’ve been told a lot of things about my mouth, by the way. Maybe you just need to put it to better use.” He hopes he sounds more seductive than desperate. 

Stan’s attention has moved to Richie’s neck now. He runs open-mouthed kisses down from his jaw, letting his teeth scrape the skin here and there, and it might be because all his senses are cranked up to eleven right now but it feels insanely good. He wishes distantly that Stan would bite down, give him a few proper hickeys, but maybe leaving marks would be going too far.

At that, though, he stops and pulls back far enough to look at Richie. “You think so?”

“Mhmm. Come on, Stan the Man, it’s not hard to shut me up.”

Stan cups his jaw in one hand, with his thumb against Richie’s lower lip, and says, “Is that what you want? You want to get on your knees for me and wrap your mouth around my cock?”

 _“Fuck,”_ Richie says. “Yeah.” 

Stan presses down so his lips barely separate, and Richie thinks he might just come right then despite the fact that Stan hadn’t even touched his dick yet, because that may honestly be the hottest thing anyone has ever done or said to him. Impulsively, he lets his tongue poke out to wet the tip of Stan’s thumb and closes his lips around it, watching as his eyes darken.

Now they’re getting somewhere.

Richie follows eagerly when Stan rolls off of him. As soon as they’re both upright, Stan takes hold of him at the waist and tugs them both across the room until he’s backed himself up against the wall. 

Right away, Richie drops to his knees.

His cock is right at eye level now, his briefs bulging out where it pushes against the fabric and fuck, Richie can’t wait to get them _off._ He looks up expectantly and reaches for the elastic band, but Stan catches Richie’s hand in one of his own before he can even touch him.

“Wait,” he says. “I want you to keep your hands in your lap. Can you do that?”

Richie huffs, which only makes Stan’s grasp tighten.

“Can you do that for me, Richie?” he asks again.

Something sarcastic jumps to his tongue. Stan’s eyebrows lift like he’s anticipating it, though, and his grip on Richie’s hand is solid and commanding, and he feels the words abruptly die in his throat. He looks down, his face turning warm. “Yes,” he says quietly.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

Clearly, Stan is having fun with this.

“Look at me, Richie.”

Mother _fucker._

Richie glances back up at Stan. He meets his eyes and finds a stern, controlled expression there. “Yes,” he says, clearer this time, and Stan releases him.

He moves his hands to his lap and lets them settle in the slant where his thighs press together. “Good,” Stan says, praising and patronizing all at once in a way that makes Richie dizzyingly hard. “See? Wasn’t that easy?”

Richie’s head feels a bit fuzzy, but he nods.

Too slowly, Stan pulls his briefs down and lets them fall, then kicks them aside. 

Stan’s cock isn’t totally hard yet, but he has a bit of length on Richie, and isn’t quite as thick — which is probably good for the sake of Richie’s ass given how many years it’s been since anyone has fucked him. _It’s nice,_ he thinks, a little ridiculously. _It’s a nice dick._

He’s sure he’s seen Stan naked before over the years — he never really looked, though, because it would’ve been fucking weird if he had, and it registers for Richie with a deranged kind of clarity that what the fuck, that’s his _best friend’s dick_ right there, right in front of his face. He had a similar existential crisis for a few seconds the first time he fucked Eddie, but even that was different; he’d been in love with Eddie for as long as he’s known what being in love meant and had thought about him while jerking off way too many times.

But this is Stan, and that’s a whole other _dimension_ of weird that Richie really needs to stop thinking about before it fries his brain. He focuses instead on the feeling of his knees pressed against the carpet and the mild ache from sitting on them for this long, and he starts to come back to the moment.

Stan slips his fingers into Richie’s curls. Richie thinks he might grip them to pull his head closer, braces for Stan to slide himself into his mouth and fuck his throat, but that isn’t what happens; instead his hands seem to just be resting there. He looks up questioningly.

Still, Stan doesn’t move. “Come on, Richie. Gonna show me what you can do with your mouth other than being a smartass?”

Then it clicks, what he wants.

Lips parted, Richie leans in, careful not to move his hands from where they rest. This is familiar territory; this he knows he’s good at, and he’s eager to prove it. He licks at the head of Stan’s cock and takes it into his mouth, then goes a bit further when he hears Stan groan. It’s tricky without using his hands, but Stan holds him steady as he goes down again.

“Just like that, nice and easy,” Stan says, and it’s satisfying that he doesn’t sound quite as collected as he did before. He absently strokes Richie’s head. “Look at you, being so good for me. Doesn’t it feel nice to do what you’re told?”

All Richie can do is moan and keep moving.

“I know you don’t try to misbehave. You can’t help it, can you? You want to be good; you just need a little help sometimes, huh?” Stan twists his fingers and tugs, then, just hard enough for it to twinge. “You just need someone with a firm hand.”

The truth of Stan’s words ruins Richie as much as the unaffected, matter-of-fact way he says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He’s unfiltered and messy and impulsive and he has no idea how to _stop_ , and that’s why he needs this. That’s why it feels so overwhelmingly good.

He whines around Stan’s cock and takes him even deeper, as far as he can go, before he hollows his cheeks and _sucks_ , dragging his tongue along the underside of the shaft, then does it again. “So good, Richie,” Stan murmurs between uneven breaths. There’s a dull sound when his head falls backward and hits the wall.

The part of Richie that’s still mostly lucid knows vaguely that Stan must be close. He doesn’t slow down, but it’s not long before Stan is gripping his hair again, this time to pull him off. “That’s enough,” he says, panting softly. 

Richie peers up at Stan. Now he can see the pink spots high on Stan’s cheeks and his own saliva coating his cock, and he feels a rush of pride from knowing _he’s_ the one who did that. “Good?” he asks. 

“Fuck. So good.” He preens at the praise and flashes a grin, which makes him acutely aware of the ache in his jaw.

Stan stoops to help him up. His legs are wobbly but he doesn’t trip — Stan keeps him steady as ever as he helps him back toward the bed. “How do you feel?” he asks, using a gentler tone than the one he’s maintained since they started.

“Never better.”

Stan searches his eyes briefly, and Richie knows he’s activated his built-in bullshit detector. “Are you sure? Do you need a minute?”

“‘M good, Stan, I promise,” he says truthfully. “Are you gonna fuck me or what?”

Stan steps back, and in the span of a heartbeat, the mood shifts again. “So impatient. Take your briefs off, then get back on the bed — hands and knees.”

“Bossy,” Richie replies, even as he obeys. “This'll do a number on my joints, Stanny, I ain’t as young as I used to be.” 

“You’re literally twenty-five.” As he positions himself, Stan says, “Lift your ass higher.”

“Aw, you’re really gonna spank me after I gave you the best blowjob you’ve ever had? So mean.” Richie drops from his hands to his elbows, shaking his head in mock dejection.

“Not quite what I had in mind. Also, what makes you think that was ‘the best blowjob I’ve ever had’?”

“Don’t lie, you know it was hot as fuck.” 

“Someone’s getting cocky. Maybe I _should_ spank you.” He feels the mattress cave as Stan climbs on behind him. A slow hand trails down his back and spreads over his ass to lightly knead the flesh. “But I won’t.” 

Richie can’t hold back a stupidly disappointed noise that makes Stan laugh.

“I know. You want me to rough you up a little, right? You want me to hold you down and fuck the brat out of you.”

Another moan falls from Richie’s lips and his hips twitch down of their own accord, seeking friction and only finding empty air.

“I don’t want to do that, though. And I don’t need to, either.” His hand drifts from Richie’s ass to the back of his thigh, where it starts to move in slow, measured strokes. “Sure, it’d be easier for you if I just forced you into submission, wouldn’t it? I could spank you if I wanted to, or I could tie you up, or gag you so you couldn’t mouth off. But I don’t want to _make_ you behave, Richie — I want you to _want_ to, because you know I’ll make you feel so fucking good when you do.”

He should’ve known that this was Stan’s game. It’s so strategic, deliberate, like everything else he does; this was obviously the point all along. And of course he’d be keenly aware not only of what Richie wants, but what he really _needs._ Just like he always is.

“I’m going to finger you now, so you're all stretched and ready, and you’re going to hold still and be patient for me while I open you up. Show me you can control yourself,” he says, still rubbing Richie’s thigh. He’s been letting his hand move incrementally higher on every upstroke, but the change is hardly noticeable until his fingertips graze Richie’s hole. Richie shudders and lurches backward into the touch. “Can you do that for me?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Yes. _Please.”_

Stan gives his thigh a quick squeeze and stands. Thank god Richie had enough foresight to leave the lube on the nightstand for easy access, because it means he’s only gone for a second. Then the mattress dips as he crawls back behind Richie, and the cap on the bottle clicks as he pops it open, and Richie doesn’t exhale until he feels the first press of Stan’s finger.

“Breathe,” Stan instructs. “Try to relax.”

Richie drops his head and closes his eyes. It burns a little; that much he was anticipating, but he didn’t expect how pleasant the slight edge of pain would feel. The sensation keeps him grounded securely while Stan works his finger into him, and as he does, it fades to a dull ache. 

By the time he adds another, Richie has started to feel restless. Stan opens him up so slowly, refusing him even the slightest bit of friction. He shifts back and makes a frustrated sound. _“Stanley.”_

“Patient,” he says firmly. “You’re still so tight; I have to go slow.”

“Come on, I can take it, _please._ I need —” The rest of his words disappear into a moan as Stan crooks his fingers inside him. 

“I thought you said you could behave yourself. If you can’t, then I’ll stop.”

“ _No_ ,” Richie pants. “I can. Please don’t stop.”

He laughs gently and continues to move at the same infuriating pace.

After a few more minutes, Stan removes his fingers entirely, but it’s only to slick them up again before he finally adds a third. Richie curses under his breath. The stretch is sweet, and he wants _more_ , wants to push back onto Stan’s fingers and chase the burn, or grind his cock down against the mattress to get some desperately-needed relief. Instead, he exhales through his nose and forces himself not to move.

Stan must notice his effort; he presses in deeper, saying, “Just like that. You’re doing so well, Rich.”

When Richie feels the first fleeting stroke of Stan’s fingers against his prostate, his whole body jerks with a strangled noise. Stan sets his other hand on Richie’s hip, rubbing it in a soothing motion. “There we go. How did that feel?”

 _“Fuck_ , so good,” he groans.

“Yeah?” He brushes that spot again, and this time his hand tightens on Richie’s hip to steady him. “You’re so sensitive,” Stan teases. “You really haven’t done this in a while, have you?”

Richie grits his teeth and swallows the urge to tell Stan to _fucking hurry up._ He seems to deliberately avoid going near Richie’s prostate after that brief moment of relief, his easy pace never faltering, and it makes Richie feel like he’s going to go insane with need.

He doesn’t know how much time passes like that, but he nearly sobs when Stan says, “I think you’re ready now,” and withdraws his fingers.

“God, yes. Fuck me, _please,_ I need it so bad.”

“I know. You’ve been so patient. So good for me.”

A slight soreness has grown in his arms and thighs from holding himself up for so long. It’s nothing compared to the way his cock aches, though, and with single-minded need he almost goes to wrap his hand around it, but he stops himself and digs his fingers into the bedsheets on either side of him.

“I’m going to fuck you now, but you’re not going to come until I give you permission. Do you think you can do that?”

 _“Yes,”_ Richie says, though at this point, he would’ve said anything.

Somewhere behind him, he hears a condom wrapper being torn open and realizes he’d actually forgotten about that part — Stan must’ve brought one. He and Eddie stopped using protection just six months into their relationship, though not before they’d both gotten comprehensive STD testing done.

“Still doing okay?” Stan asks.

“Mmhm.”

“Arms holding up alright?”

“Yeah. Sweet of you, making sure I’m nice and comfortable before you blow my back out.”

He doesn’t respond; he just takes hold of Richie’s hips to pull him closer, and _finally,_ Richie feels the tip of Stan’s dick press against his hole.

 _“Shit_ ,” he hisses.

Stan pushes into him so slowly, half an inch at a time.

He can’t believe he’s gone so long without this. The stretch is incredible, so solid and _real,_ splitting him apart, and as Stan bottoms out he thinks, _okay, holy fuck, this is happening._

“How does that feel?” Stan asks, and Richie only has it in him to groan.

Stan stays there for a few seconds longer before pulling back out to the tip, then thrusts forward again — slightly faster than the first time, but nowhere near what Richie was hoping for. He starts to fuck into him with an unhurried, leisurely cadence, making sure Richie can feel every inch of him while still deftly avoiding his prostate. It’s fucking cruel, and he should’ve seen this coming, doesn’t know why he thought Stan was done with his game by any means.

 _“Fuck me,”_ he begs.

Stan, the smug, sadistic bastard that he is, has the audacity to feign surprise. “I _am_ fucking you,” he replies innocently. “Isn’t this what you wanted? What you’ve been asking for all night?”

“Shit, Stanley, you’re fucking _mean.”_

“I thought that was the point.”

It’s remarkable, the amount of restraint Stan has — by the time he gets inside Eddie, he usually can barely contain himself, and it quickly turns rough and messy in their mutual desperation to come. He can feel how hard Stan is, physically feel it inside him, yet he’s somehow still in control and perfectly unfazed.

Richie, meanwhile, is falling apart beneath him, sure in a hazy way that Stan is trying to kill him as he gasps softly in time with every agonizing stroke. 

It’s unbelievably good, and he feels so fucking full _,_ but it’s not _enough._

Then, without warning, Stan adjusts his angle; he lifts Richie’s hips higher, and the next time he drives into him, he hits his prostate dead on. Richie makes an unintelligible noise, arching his back when the sensation slices through him, mouth running unchecked as he continues to grind into the same spot with each calculated, methodical thrust. “Fuck, oh my god, Stan, _fuck,”_ he babbles. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, holy shit.”

His brain is melting straight through his skull. The sweet, measured drag of Stan’s cock against his rim and the sharp pangs of pleasure shooting through his abdomen are pulling him apart, and he’s not sure how much longer he’s going to last.

“I’m close,” he chokes out. “I need to come, Stan, I need it so bad.”

Behind him, Stan hums, his rhythm not changing at all. “I think you can hold on a little longer.” 

Richie might lose his mind. He groans, straining, and fists his hands into the sheets.

“Just a little bit longer,” Stan repeats. As he talks, he rubs the small of Richie’s back with a calming hand. “Can you be patient for me, Richie?”

He doesn’t know if he _can_ , truthfully, but something possesses him to nod anyway.

The minutes bleed like ink on wet paper as Stan continues to fuck him, deliciously cruel and slow. It’s taking every ounce of Richie’s limited clarity to keep himself from tipping over the edge, but he wants to be _good_ for Stan, wants it almost as badly in that moment as he wants to come. So, panting and moaning, hyper-aware of every sensation, he holds on. 

“Good,” Stan says. “Fuck, look at you, taking me so well. Being so good, Rich. I think you’ve waited long enough. You can come as soon as you’re ready.”

Something halfway between a gasp and a sob bursts out of Richie’s open mouth. _“Thank you, thank you,”_ he says, borderline incoherent. He’s so fucking close, he just needs to get a hand around his cock and then he knows he’s done for.

“No,” Stan says sharply. “I said you could come. I didn’t give you permission to touch yourself.”

 _“Stan._ I need — fuck, please, _touch me.”_

“No,” he says again. “If you need it so badly, you can come just like this.”

“I can’t — I can’t take it,” Richie groans. “ _Please_ , Stan.”

“I think you can. You’ve been so obedient tonight, Richie; be good for me and take it.”

Stan keeps an unrelenting hold on Richie as he drives again and again into the oversensitive knot of nerves inside him, and Richie feels the coil in his gut pull tighter with every stroke, the pressure building like a tidal wave, inevitable and impossible to control.

“Perfect — come on, just like that,” Stan says, voice starting to slur. “So good for me, feel so good.” The words register faintly amid the keening, desperate noises spilling out of Richie’s own mouth, but everything else drowns in the flood of stimulation as his orgasm is dragged viciously out of him.

When he comes, he feels it like a nuclear blast in slow motion. It begins somewhere deep within him and surges outward, turns his limbs to jelly and reduces every last lucid thought to a feverish litany of expletives and nonsense as he spills onto the sheets. 

Stan fucks him through the aftershocks and doesn’t ease off as the tremors roll through him, but his rhythm starts to unravel before long. Just when _so good, holy shit_ starts to verge on _too much, too much,_ Stan’s grip becomes a vice as his hips stutter and snap against him once, then twice, and he folds against Richie with a depleted groan.

They’re both still for a minute, breathing heavily. Stan pulls out — carefully, though the feeling still makes Richie wince — then rises with considerable effort to discard the used condom before collapsing back onto the bed, half on top of Richie.

With a grunt, Richie mutters, “I can scoot over.”

“You’re laying in a puddle of cum,” Stan mumbles back.

Stan’s right, and it should probably gross him out more, but for now he’s comfortable and still far too hazy to worry about it; his head swims in the buzz and the feeling of Stan’s fingers running lightly through his hair. 

“Your dick should be classified as a mind-altering drug,” Richie tells him. Stan cracks a smile.

“Is that a compliment?”

“I think so.”

They lay there for a few minutes longer, and then Richie gives an involuntary sound of protest as Stan’s body heat disappears from the side he was draped over. He’s only gone for a minute, though, and returns holding a wet washcloth.

“Do you think you can move?” he asks. “You should probably shower, but I think you’d be considered a fall risk right now.”

Richie stirs with an exaggerated groan. “She’s in rough shape, Doc, but we think she’ll make it.”

Stan helps him clean up, then strips the sheets off the bed, though not without some griping about how he should’ve thought to lay down a towel. Once they’ve both dressed and the bed has been made up in a new set of sheets, Richie idly follows Stan to the kitchen, where he turns the stove on underneath Eddie’s copper tea kettle and pulls out a pair of mugs.

“What’s that for?”

“What do you think?” Stan says, giving him a dry look.

Richie just shakes his head. “My boyfriend gives me one free pass and I use it on a guy who makes tea after sex.”

Once the water heats up, Stan pours it into the mugs over tea bags, then stirs a spoonful of honey into each one. Richie doesn’t argue when a mug is pressed into his hand. “Jasmine,” Stan says. “Supposed to be calming.”

In the living room, Stan switches on the television and pushes a tape into the VCR.

Richie gapes at him as the movie starts. “You hated _Heathers_ but you’re cool with _The Breakfast Club?”_

“There’s no murder in _The Breakfast Club,”_ Stan replies.

They settle onto the couch and drink their tea in a cozy silence. Richie lets his head rest on Stan’s shoulder, thinking not for the first time that night that he’s got to be the luckiest person in the world.

At a quarter to eleven, Eddie and Patty burst through the front door. They’ve clearly both had some to drink — before they even enter the room, he hears Patty’s lively giggle, then a _thud,_ followed by Eddie shouting, “I’m okay!” Richie’s heart swells with affection, and he knows by the meaningful look they exchange that Stan feels the exact same way.

While Patty sits down beside Stan and settles under his arm, Eddie deposits himself directly into Richie’s lap and loops his arms around his neck. Obligingly, Richie pulls him closer and kisses him, tasting something strong on his tongue. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks.

“It was great,” Eddie says sincerely. “I missed you, though.”

“Missed you too, sweetheart.” Richie lays a kiss on Eddie’s forehead.

“What you _missed,”_ Patty says, “was Eddie delivering the performance of a lifetime. He blew it out of the water.”

“Not in a good way,” he clarifies, scoffing. “I apparently can’t do Gwen Stefani drunk or sober. Also, there’s a chance we’ve been blacklisted from all future karaoke nights, but the important thing is that we had fun.”

“Too much fun, it sounds like,” Stan says.

Patty rolls her eyes. “I refuse to believe any such thing exists. Besides, I presume you boys got up to plenty of trouble of your own tonight.”

“No, actually,” Stan deadpans. “We made tea and sat here all evening watching _The Breakfast Club.”_

“Absolutely no funny business occurred whatsoever,” Richie adds.

“I’m sure you were on your best behavior,” she replies pointedly, then laughs again. “Don’t worry, Stan promised to tell me everything later.”

“And that’s our cue, I think.” Stan scoops his wife up in his arms with no difficulty and stands. “It’s getting late, babylove,” he says to Patty, then to Eddie and Richie, “I better get this one home and in bed.”

“You bastard! Unhand me!” she cries, although she ruins the melodrama of it by dissolving into giggles before she can even finish the sentence, and Stan sets her down with a quick kiss to her cheek.

Richie eases Eddie off his lap and rises to follow them, and they all migrate toward the entry. Patty throws her arms around him as soon as he’s within grabbing distance. “So good to see you, Rich,” she says.

“You too, Patty. Thanks for, uh, letting me borrow your husband. And for showing Eds a good time.”

“Delighted to. We’re doing lunch next week, by the way. You’ll be there.” She doesn’t pose it like a question.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he assures her. 

Stan comes to him next, and Richie says, “Thank you. For — y’know. Everything.”

“Of course,” he says simply, and then he’s bringing Richie in for another warm, solid hug.

Once they’ve all said their goodbyes, Patty lets Stan scoop her up again and carry her to the car, giggling the whole way.

Eddie tugs Richie back to the couch and seats himself in his lap again.

“So,” he says. “Patty and I may have spent most of the evening talking about our sex lives —”

Richie chokes.

“— and I’ve gotta say, I’m a little jealous of you both now. Apparently Stan’s dick is _transcendent_.”

A laugh punches out of his chest, because seriously, _transcendent_. Pretending to be offended, he asks, “What, ‘s mine not good enough for you?”

“Nah. Yours is perfect.” Eddie squeezes his shoulder. “Really, though, how was it?”

“Stan’s dick?”

 _“All_ of it, dumbass,” he says.

“It was good. It was _really_ good — although I don’t know how you can get fucked like that all the time and still have a functioning brain. Mine kinda feels like it’s oozing out through my ears.”

“That good, huh?”

“Yeah. Wiped me out; I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

Eddie gives him a long, slow kiss. “It’s probably bedtime for both of us now, but I said I wanted to hear about it, so don’t think I’m not gonna hold you to that tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But yeah — bedtime.”

He’s thinking about Stan effortlessly carrying Patty out of the apartment when he tries to lift Eddie up with him, but his limbs remind him a second too late that he’s not in any condition to be attempting that right now. They both end up tumbling to the floor, laughing the whole way down.

It takes a minute for them to manage to get to their feet again. Once they do, Eddie slips a hand into Richie’s, and together, they make their way to bed.

Tomorrow he’ll give Eddie all the dirty details he’s so keen on getting, and Eddie will burn with a pink flush in his cheeks or tease him the whole way through it, maybe both. And if he’s not too sore, maybe Richie will press him into the mattress and fuck him tenderly until Eddie's blush deepens to red and he’s whining softly in his throat, and Richie will be reminded again just how ridiculously lucky he is to have this. How there’s no way he could ever properly put the ocean of love for Eddie that fills up his chest into words, but that he’ll try as many times as it takes to get it right.

For now, though, they slide under the covers, Eddie instinctively shifting so Richie’s chest is against his back, and Richie nuzzles his face into Eddie’s shoulder and brings him closer with an arm thrown over his middle. Just as he’s on the edge of consciousness, he murmurs, “Hey. I love you.”

Eddie twists around in his arms to kiss his cheek. “I love you too,” he replies, and with a smile, Richie lets sleep overcome him.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi on tumblr!](http://saintemry.tumblr.com)
> 
> if you guys yell at me enough about it perhaps i will do a part 2 ft. streddie (also i need to write more stanpat like right the fuck now i love them so much)
> 
> all my love to [bimmyshrug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bimmyshrug) [losers-to-lovers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missberryisbest/pseuds/losers-to-lovers) and [itskitschyrichie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itskitschyrichie) for the constant encouragement and hype while i wrote this buffoonery.


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